


20th Century Boy

by ScarletTyler



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletTyler/pseuds/ScarletTyler
Summary: Thorin knows better than to fall in love with a rock star. His stubbornness has never met its match, that is until a certain three-meter tall, bottle-blond, bushy browed diva proves to him that there is always more than meets the eye.





	20th Century Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuuwaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuwaku/gifts).



> And it's plain to see you were meant for me  
> Yeah, I'm your toy, your 20th century boy  
> -[T-Rex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQw3LBl2eEU)  
> -[x Japan Cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYqrY_uG8DY)

They warned him not to fall for the trick.

With a stony glare and a giant scowl, Dwalin doubled down, "'Cause if you did, I'm smashing your head with a hammer for being fucking useless." Thorin snorted at the well-meaning threat as he shoved the massive fossil of a laptop into its battered case.

"In all seriousness, Thorin," insisted Balin, "please don't let them get inside your head."

This time, Thorin shot an amused smirk at his editor-slash-mentor. "Save it for Kili. Where is he anyway? Thought he'd be begging me to score him an autograph." Despite the lack of confidence, he was certain he would _never_ be as stupid as his lovestruck nephew. When both men shrugged their shoulders, he sighed and zipped up his luggage. Better to leave as soon as possible then, in case Dis made a sudden appearance and joined their nagging. "Don't fall for the trick," he scoffed under his breath.

_'Never did, never will.'_

 

* * *

 

_Lasgalen._

A relic of the band's past foray into the hippie, tree-hugging shit. Whoever thought of keeping that name was mental. More likely, it was one of the members—if not all. Mental, the whole lot of them. _Also:_ pretentious, otherworldly beautiful, and secretive as hell. Group interviews were given as if it pained them to do so; One-on-one, as if they were asked to trade in their souls for a penny. Thorin may not appreciate whatever Lasgalen was trying to be, but everyone else ate it up—the drugged out cult proclaiming themselves to be die-hard fans, screaming their gods' names into the stage, night after night, city after city. An explicit display of the trick going into full effect among the gullible sheep. He had never seen a live show before, so he made do with grainy videos from previous tours. Tomorrow, he would start following them around, alone in a rented RV that stuttered out a dying breath every half a mile. Arkenstone, the magazine he wrote for, wasn't big enough to earn him a spot in any of their tour buses. Whatever, he didn't want to make friends anyway. They all knew his goals, even without asking.

The story would be scathing. First, it would expose the draconian ways of big labels and their concert tours, and then, it would shine a light on the farce of boardroom-manufactured artists that came in dime a dozen these days. The latter, however, was turning out to be harder to prove. Whoever cooked up Lasgalen's overall aesthetic was mental. Each member had a unique—for the lack of a better term—style, none of which worked well with the others.

There was Tauriel, cheeky and fiery as her auburn hair. Posters of her lined Kili's bedroom ever since the band shifted genres a couple of years ago. She flaunted her rarity as a lady drummer by pairing exotic leathers with flowy, printed skirts. What actually distinguished her was her unfiltered mouth that got her into trouble not just with the fans but with her bandmates as well. A large portion of information about Lasgalen were gleaned from her candid, though few and far between, interviews. As such, she would most likely be the sacrificial lamb for the success of Thorin's quest.

Switching between the lead guitar and bass parts were the twins, Feren and Galion. Their only similarity, however, lied on their long, brown hair and equally dark eyes. A perpetual frown marred Feren's otherwise pristine image, preferring clean lines and solid, earthy colors. Galion, on the other hand, appeared to just throw on the latest collections of charity shops around—ratty vest tops, paint-stained overalls, though one time, he wore a Victorian three-piece suit complete with a top hat and monocle. Despite the general lack of thematic style, his signature accessory was a bottle of whiskey, which he imbibed before and after a performance. It's not a Lasgalen show without Feren escorting his carefree twin to the backstage. 

And yet, that still wasn't the 'greatest' spectacle the band had to offer. 

An androgynous contradiction, reminiscent of the glam rock legends from a different era; That's what best summarized the three-meter tall, bottle-blond, bushy-browed frontman called Thranduil—if that even was his real name. Thorin's recon yielded nothing much about the band's leader. The blurry image of him posed a conundrum. In fact, it was like the man himself couldn't decided who he was. Hard or soft, corrupted or unsullied. He glided around in his steel-toed platform boots as billows of shimmery robe swished with his every move. A myriad of garish rings highlighted his slender fingers while delicate blossoms adorned his stick straight hair that fell down to his waist. Once in a while, he would _reward_ his fans with an enigmatic grin that never reached his charcoal-smeared eyes.

Thorin could go on and on and on, but what's the point? These caricatures didn't arouse his interest. Their music, their struggles, their attempts to stay relevant despite the self-imposed isolation—that's the story he wanted to unearth and bring to light. That's what the fans clamored to read: dirty, gritty, and never been seen before.

_'But it's easier said than done.'_

 

* * *

 

Flicking off the ashes from the tip of his cigarette, Thorin leaned back against a steel pillar on the side of the stage. It was the perfect spot to observe uninhibited and uninterrupted. Two shows in one night, no member could be accused of being a lazy prima donna. When Tauriel raised her drumsticks up in the air, signaling the start of the performance, Thorin closed his eyes, focused his attention on the music—not the caricatures before him—and jotted down his notes, risking not even a single peek at his pad.

After the last song, he went over the results, eyes narrowing at the tiny squiggles that made up his handwriting.

**Potent.**

**Dramatic.**

**Bewitching.**

His fingers itched for another smoke. A moment or two had passed before he conceded with a long, drawn-out sigh. His ears wouldn't lie to him.

_Dammit._

 

* * *

  

Thorin tried it again the following day, this time watching the full show away from the electrified crowd.

**Strange.**

**Fierce.**

**Wow.**

Somehow, they had reduced him to monosyllabic words.

_Shit.  
_

 

* * *

  

Through divine intervention or whatever power was at work, a crew informed Thorin that he had been granted a one-on-one interview with the frontman that same night. With a single nod of his head, he trudged towards the tour bus, wondering what really prompted this stroke of luck. One time, after rehearsals, he had crossed paths with the band as they bantered among themselves on their way to another photoshoot. He and Thranduil had shared a quick glance—nothing more—but during that short second, a hint of recognition flashed across the blond's stoic features. Thorin had shrugged it off as false alarm, a mistake that could now either make or break this assignment.

Lavish was the first word that came into mind as he gaped at the interiors of the bus. Decorative wood paneling covered its walls, while crystal figurines of elks and deer littered all over the place. An overstuffed leather couch occupied one side, giving way to an honest-to-god wine rack in the middle of the room—as if it was the pièces de résistance.  To the left was another wooden partition, hiding away the bedroom and bathroom from wandering eyes. Excessive was the second word that came into mind as he considered if this was all for just one man.  


Frozen on his spot by the door, Thorin stammered out a greeting, thrown off by the unnerving gaze directed straight at him. They were blue, he discovered, paler than his own eyes. 

"Call me Thranduil," the blond replied, gracing him with an elusive grin. It still didn't reach past his cheeks. 

Thorin nodded as ice slid down his back. Any moment now, his secret would be revealed. They sat down on opposite sides of the couch, as if an invisible force repelled them from getting closer to one another. Thranduil turned halfway towards his guest, tucking a leg under his large frame in the process. The side of his head rested on his arm propped up on the plush edge of the backrest. Everything about him seemed to be glowing from this distance. Every strand of his platinum hair, every fold of his sheer white robe, every precious stone set on the rings and the spider-like brooch pinned over his chest. A perfect image of calm and repose, nothing like Thorin, who had been trying to gather his wits by letting out a shaky breath. Any moment now, he repeated like a mantra.  


The accusation never came, however. Not while he set up the recorder on the space between them. Not while he fished out his trusty pen and pad. Not while he took another gulp of air to steady himself. He did get around to drilling the frontman about the hypocrisy of the industry, the way his lyrics conflicted with the image they was conveying, the fickle nature of fans in general. 

Thranduil never wavered, not for one second. His answers were given in a deliberate and eloquent manner, enhanced further by the deep cadence of his voice. At one point, his gaze flitted down the couch and a smirk curled up on his lips, breaking the immersive flow of discussion. "Shouldn't you be capturing this?"

Heat rushed up from Thorin's chest to the tips of his ears. The red light wasn't blinking. His pen laid forgotten on his lap. He wished the ground would swallow him down whole, right this moment.  


_ Fuuuck. _

 

* * *

 

Another night, another city, another sheer robe. This time, it was wine red instead of stark white. Thranduil swayed to the music, lips pressed against the microphone. Observing from his usual post, Thorin swallowed thickly as his fingers raked through the dark waves falling down the side of his face. He should be watching the others too, not fixating on every snap of those hips. Gun—or rather, a hammer—to his head, he still couldn't take his eyes away from the ethereal blond.

**Mesmerized.**

**Entranced.**

**Fucked.**

They had warned him not to fall for the trick; Dwalin would be _so damn proud_ of him.

After the show, Thranduil's gaze wandered to the side of the stage, his lips tugging up on one corner when he found his target. A flick of his long, long fingers beckoned at Thorin before he waved goodbye at the crowd begging for an encore. What a tease, he thought while elbowing his way towards their meeting point. Except it wasn't teasing at all. They had agreed to meet again tonight to correct the blunder he committed during the first interview.

Thorin waited outside the bus for exactly thirty-four minutes and thirteen seconds. Not that he had been staring at the little hand on his wristwatch as it went round and round and round. There just wasn't much else he could do out there in the cold. On the fourteenth second, the door finally opened saving him from the curious glances of Feren and Galion, passing by on their way to their shared quarters on another bus. He fetched his notes about tonight's show from his coat pocket and entered without acknowledging the question in their matching arched looks.

"Take this," ordered Thranduil, handing over a crystal goblet filled with expensive wine judging by the bottle perched precariously on top of the rack. The dark liquid sloshed as he accepted it, spilling a few drops on the carpeted floor. Thranduil didn't seem to notice as he tried—and failed—to slip a bottle of pills away from sight.

Thorin grimaced, downed a mouthful of his drink, and looked anywhere but the pale stranger before him. Why should he care, he thought, except somewhere in the back of his head, an incessant voice whispered that he did, of course, he did. His gaze returned to Thranduil, who patted the seat next to him with a faraway look. "D'you dance?" Without waiting for a response, the blond slunk down to his knees and pulled out a carved chest from under the coffee table. 

"No." Thorin did know, of course, but he'd rather not. Not right now, anyway. From where he stood, he could see several vinyl records stored inside the chest. "Are you okay? 'Cause we could do this some other night." Thranduil rummaged through them with swift fingers, as if he hadn't heard anything. "You know what? I should probably go. I've got to—"

"D'you sing?"

"No." Something's terribly off. Thorin took a step back.

"Liar," countered Thranduil, eyes glinting with manic energy.

"What—" Thorin stopped as his thundering heart lurched up to his throat.

Thranduil stood up to his full height, towering over Thorin. Held up in his hand was a vinyl record plastered with The Durins—a much younger him, Frerin and Dis—on its cover. "I feel like listening to this. Join me?"

Air wasn't getting into his lungs; It made his head spin. "Where. . . where did you get that?" He had let his guard down. His guts screamed at him to stay vigilant, but he had ignored it, like the fool he was.

"Does it matter?"

No. What mattered was escape. "I have to go." He hurried towards the door, only to be blocked by the massive blond.

"Tell me." Rough hands grabbed Thorin by the shoulders, making him wince. Hissing to his face, Thranduil demanded for answers. "Tell me how. Tell me what happened. I don't wanna be a failure like you."

Red clouded Thorin's vision, painting the mad man before him in a murderous light. "Let go, you freak!" he growled, shoving Thranduil to the wall. The door banged open, startling them both. An even larger man wrestled him down to the ground, right in front of the stunned crew outside the bus. He scrambled up to his feet, ignoring the searing pain on his palms and knees. "Fuck you! You're nothing special, you hear me! Overdose, for all I care!" His chest heaved when a flash of gold and silver flickered from inside the bus. Thranduil stared back at him with wide eyes, uncomprehending, almost childlike in its innocence. As if he wasn't the spark for Thorin's fiery tirade. It's hopeless, Thorin realized. Nothing he said, nothing he did, nothing could ever get through the haze. Exactly like before, he recalled, as bile churned in his stomach. The bodyguard advanced towards him, but he held up a hand between them.

Swallowing down the rest of his words, he walked away with his head held high.

 

* * *

 

"No, there's no need for that. I won't be pressing charges anyway," he muttered to the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. His nose prickled from the scent of the disinfectant. The cuts on his palms were superficial but annoying nonetheless. At least, he didn't sprain or break anything. Writing would be a bitch with a busted wrist. Balin droned on and on and on from the other end, something about professionalism and the art of diplomacy. He couldn't care less, to be honest. Fortunately, a knocking on the door saved him from the pointless lecture. "Gotta go. Talk later."

Thorin's jaw dropped to the ground when he opened the door.

Before him was Thranduil, stripped down to the man underneath the thick makeup and ridiculous costumes. Red flannel shirt, sweatpants, sheepskin boots, and not a single tacky ring in sight. Though purple blossoms remained woven through his braided hair, the profound transformation struck Thorin speechless. With him was another bottle of expensive wine. Apparently, in his world, everything could be solved by a good drink or two. Thorin grabbed hold of the door frame, his fingers digging into the rusty edge.

"You weren't at the show."

Averting his gaze, Thorin shrugged his shoulders. "I was busy." Guilt began welling up inside to his utter bewilderment.

"I thought watching me perform is part of your job," Thranduil said, pressing the cold bottle to Thorin's chest. Of course, the diva hated being ignored. "Let's talk inside," he added as Thorin gave in and accepted the peace offering of sorts. He then cast a quick glance to the side, bringing to Thorin's attention the stares they were getting from the passers-by.

Thorin sighed. He ushered in his unexpected guest before inspecting the bottle. His eyes rolled upward upon reading the French label. They would not be sharing drinks again—not after what happened the last time they did—so he deposited the wine inside the mini fridge. Meanwhile, Thranduil's gaze roamed around the cramped interiors, looking terribly out of place. Stray shirts and trousers littered the tiny couch. Piled high in the rubbish bin were takeout boxes from several days ago. It wasn't a pretty sight, sure, but he did not need the freak to pass judgment on him for being dirt poor.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Thorin asked in a quiet voice, "Why are you here?" Guilt had turned into impatience, like it should have from the start.

"I want to apologize for last night," answered Thranduil, dragging his eyes away from the laptop and fixing them on Thorin instead. "I had too much drink, and for some reason, I thought—" 

"That's not it," Thorin cut in. 

"Alcohol, drugs, whatever," dismissed Thranduil with a wave of his hand. "What I'm trying to say is that I crossed a line, and it won't happen again."

Stunned, all Thorin managed was to shake his head at the reaction he got. _"Why?"_ Cocking his head to the side, Thranduil painted yet another innocent picture. Thorin's still not buying it. "You could've anything—do anything!—and you choose to do drugs?" He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, eyes shut tight, as irritation transformed into frustration. An unnerving silence filled the room. He opened his eyes and saw the blond's thick brow quirking up in interest.

"Anything?"

Confusion dulled Thorin's reflexes, rendering him an easy target. Air rushed out of his chest as the back of his head banged against the wall. He barely felt it though. Something floral tickled his nose. Tart wine teased his tongue. Heat, a blanket of heat all over him. He didn't know until now how much a kiss could overwhelm his senses, his entire being. When his brain caught up with his mouth, his arms found the strength to free himself. "What—" he sputtered out, "What the hell?"

Thranduil tightened his grip around Thorin's middle, his panting breath sweeping down the smaller man. "You said anything," he answered, as if that explained everything. "I want this." He bent down and caught Thorin's ear between his teeth. He then whispered, "If you hate it so much, all you have to do is say no."

A shaky breath escaped between Thorin's lips. "Back off. Are you fucking high right now?" Hopeless, he repeated in his head, and it bothered him why he even cared in the first place. 

Thranduil narrowed his eyes as a corner of his lips curled up. "Don't tell me you've never done it yourself," he challenged, though he did let go and straightened up to his full height again.

"I did," admitted Thorin. "Of course, I did. And so did my brother. He would sniff it, smoke it, inject it, just so he could bust out a melody or two. He was nothing like you but—" He bit his bottom lip, uncertain where his honesty was leading him to.

"But what?"

Thorin cleared his throat as goosebumps formed on his arms. The intense gaze directed at him chilled him to the core. "The thing is, I remember sensing something off when we first met. . . Your eyes. Yours and his. After last night, I realized it was exactly the same." He paused, feeling awfully bare and tired. "There's your answer, by the way. I failed him."

It's only a matter of seconds, he knew, but the ensuing silence seemed to stretch for hours. "I don't need to be saved, Thorin, and you're no hero either," replied Thranduil, shaking his head in disbelief. "All I need is. . . " he trailed off, searching for the right words, "a goddamn distraction. That's all. Besides, I'm not hooked on angel dust. I just—"

"Angel dust? You mean PCP?!"

Thranduil nodded, nonchalant as he leaned the side of his hips against the counter.

"You could've killed me!" 

Broad shoulders shrugged up and down, infuriating him further. "But I didn't."

"Are you on it right now?" demanded Thorin, not minding the increasing volume of his rants. "Is that why you assaulted me?"

"Assaulted?" Thranduil looked so affronted that it was almost laughable. Almost. "When did I—?"

"When you. . ." Thorin trailed off, miming the rest of his words instead by waving a hand over his face.

Thranduil harrumphed as he rolled his eyes. "First, I'm not on anything right now. A bit of wine, yes, but that's nothing. Second, who would've thought that Thorin Durinson is such a sanctimonious prick?"

Bristling, Thorin rose to the bait. "I am not."

"You are."

"Not!"

"Prove it, then." 

"Nice try." Thorin clenched his fist to keep himself from wiping the smug grin with his knuckles. "I'm not fucking someone who's high on horse tranquilizers."

"Well, I'm hung like—"

"Stop!"

Thranduil actually had the nerve to laugh at his discomfort. "Oh, look at that. I was wrong. You're actually a sanctimonious _prude_."

"Were you always like this? I actually thought you were decent during the interview." Thorin wanted to tear his hair out, but he settled for digging in his nails to his palms. "Bah, this assignment's driving me mad."

"Hmmm. . . Interesting."

That teasing grin should come with a warning, Thorin grumbled to himself. "What is?" 

"Why don't we help each other out instead?" Thranduil put forward, eyes glinting with the ideas lighting up in his head. "A quid pro quo, if you must."

Thorin didn't know where this was leading, but there's no harm in asking, right? "I'm listening."

"I could give you an exclusive access to Lasgalen. Rehearsals, parties. . . all the interviews you need."

"Go on." He almost didn't want to hear the catch. Almost.

"In return, you would do all my bidding."

Thorin scoffed. "I'm not whoring myself out to you."

"You'd be my _little_ secret." Haughty like a king of some forgotten land, Thranduil invaded his personal space once more. "Something new to distract me."

Thorin could practically sense the pheromones wafting off the blond. Dammit. "Only if you give up your stash and stay clean." An addict wouldn't give that up so easily. It was an effective ultimatum. If only the other party was anyone but the smirking giant before him. 

"Done," said Thranduil, victory lacing the grin on his face. "I told you I'm not hooked. It's just supposed to be for. . . emergencies." His hand captured the gobsmacked Thorin by the chin, tilting it up. "So, do we have a deal?"

Thorin was no hero, but with the taste of Thranduil in his mouth, he felt like he could be one.

 

* * *

 

It turned out that Thranduil's one redeeming trait was his integrity.

That same night, Thorin found himself inside the dressing room of Tauriel, waiting for the show to end. He didn't know how the frontman persuaded the drummer to agree for an interview, but he had some ideas, knowing the lengths Thranduil could go through just to get what he wanted.

The door swung open a quarter past midnight. Tauriel was neither surprised nor irritated as she bound up to him and ruffled his hair. "You guys made up!" Her fingers picked something off his hair before he could swat her away. Collapsing down the chair in front of the mirrors, she motioned for Thorin to take a seat on the couch as well. "What did he do to you?"

Thorin dismissed the inquiry as he set up the recorder, double checking everything this time around. His silence didn't deter the redhead, however. She repeated the question, louder than before, as if the problem was Thorin's hearing. Sighing, he tried to tamp down her curiosity. "Look, I'm supposed to be the one asking the questions here."

Her fingers toyed with something. . . small and purple. "I'll answer all of 'em once you've answered mine," she countered. For some reason, she seemed to holding back her laughter too.

Time's a-wastin' so he decided to humor her. "We had a disagreement during an interview. He said sorry. I said I won't press charges if he would give me what I came here for."

"And what exactly is that?"

Thorin was about to tell her off for not minding her own business when Tauriel finally revealed her hand. A familiar purple flower bud twirled between her thumb and forefinger. Images of yellow and purple bobbing up and down his crotch flooded his mind. _Why_ didn't that bloody thing wash off in the shower he took after the blond had his fill?

Grinning from ear to ear, Tauriel couldn't contain her amusement no longer. "You're his new toy, aren't you?"

Thorin sighed. So much for keeping their dirty secret.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Thorin tried to sneak into the tour bus, only to stop in front of the door when he heard someone yelling inside. He had sent a text to Thranduil last night, reminding him about the dangers of Tauriel's big mouth. All he got back was a summon first thing in the morning.

_"You went behind my back the first time, and I let you off when you said you know what you're doing. Now, you're putting the others at risk, too?! Don't you see? You're playing with fire here! You'll regret this when he finally burned you. And trust me, he will."_

There was no doubt that Lasgalen's manager, Elrond, was referring to him. Tauriel did tattle away their secret. He stepped away from the bus, in case he got caught eavesdropping, but it was too late. The door burst open, nearly smacking him on the face. 

Splotches of red marred Elrond’s otherwise sharp features. The manager scowled at him, gearing up for another round of unsolicited sermon. But then Thranduil showed up behind him and without warning, dragged Thorin inside by the arm. The door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of the world.

"He seems nice," Thorin mumbled as he eyed Thranduil warily.

"He is," replied the blond as he led Thorin to the bedroom by the small of his back. 

"Reporters terrify him, huh?"

"He'll live," Thranduil dismissed. "Unfortunately." His features softened though but it was gone in the blink of an eye. 

Thorin snorted. He recalled how big of a headache he and Frerin had been to their manager. Dis, on the other hand, was the perfect talent. Always on time, always sober.

Thranduil pushed him down the bed, pulling him back to the present. "He's worried you'd write a little piece about this ‘sordid’ affair."

"What did you tell him?"

Crawling his way into the bed, Thranduil eyed hungrily the prone form under him. "That we're just fucking to pass the time.” He paused to unbuckle the leather belt around Thorin’s middle. “Nothing to write home about."

"Wow." Thorin didn’t know whether or not to be offended. After all, teasing him was the blond's current favorite pastime. He arched his back to let the belt slither off his waist.

Thranduil feigned innocence. "What?" he asked, smothering a grin.

"Nothing at all?" He snatched the belt away as an idea tickled his imagination. He had to teach this insolent blond a lesson. 

"Prove me wrong, then," challenged Thranduil. Smirking, he scooted up until his back hit the headboard. 

Thorin chased after him as his mind figured out the best way to tie up Thranduil. "Remember, you asked for it." He then kissed the blond, gripping both arms high above the damning flower buds woven through his hair. On their tongues lingered the taste of wine and marmalade. When he began looping the leather around the wrists, Thranduil broke the kiss to bite his bottom lip in delicious anticipation. 

Thorin fucked him until every flower fell from his golden hair.

 

* * *

 

Now that the secret was out, Thranduil couldn't seem to stop himself from reaching for Thorin whenever they were in the same room. Or grabbing hold of his hand when they were out exploring whichever city was the next stop for Lasgalen's tour. It was as if the blond wanted to shout at everyone that Thorin was his and his alone, even if only for the next few weeks. 

Neither Tauriel nor Feren batted an eye when Thranduil tugged Thorin into his lap during a rehearsal one afternoon. To his surprise, it was the laid-back Galion who nearly jumped out of his seat upon witnessing the crude display of possessiveness. Elrond watched over them from the corner, forever dubious, although he did stop giving them the silent treatment after a couple of days.

Thorin continued to work on his assignment though sometimes, after a show, Thranduil would drag him to the nearest loo, unable to wait any longer to play with his newfound toy. That's also how they discovered their shared tendency for exhibitionism, a kink that each actively encourage on the other, driving them both wild. They both liked the idea of others knowing that they were desperate for each other though neither was willing to let anyone else see the beautiful disasters they both became after coming undone.

It was only when he was balls deep into Thranduil’s heat—pressed up against the door of the backup singers' dressing room—that Thorin began to wonder if this was getting out of control. Then, Thranduil cried for him in a long, artless moan, bucking his hips harder as he finally reached his peak. Nothing else mattered at that point. Thorin recalled how he had ruined things—important things—before just because of overthinking, worrying, doubting. He wouldn't let that happen again. Not when he had finally labeled Thranduil as someone 'important', someone he could never destroy.

 

* * *

 

The more intimate they became, the more Thorin learned about the secrets of Lasgalen. Elrond had fought hard to give them privacy, to separate the artist from the individual, to preserve the music in its perfect state. Thorin did intend to destroy their reputation, but not anymore. Not after he learned that Tauriel's fire was fueled by pure passion rather than her insecurities. Not after he learned that Feren's perennial frown was born out of genuine concern about anything and everything under the sun. Not after he learned that Galion's whisky was just _fucking_ apple juice. It was all an act, a farce, a fantasy.

But what changed Thorin's mind indefinitely was the night when he learned what Thranduil had meant about 'emergencies'. It was sometime in between shows, when the band got a time off. Nothing to practice, nothing to worry about. It was moments like this when the demons kept at bay by the music and the crowd and the exhaustion would return with a vengeance.

"Do you want me to go?" asked Thorin to the Thranduil-shaped lump under the thick duvet. They were supposed to have dinner, but the blond canceled when Thorin was already dressed up and ready to go. Exaggerating a big yawn, he had claimed to have a sore back though he had practically done nothing the whole day.

When he got no reply, Thorin hesitated but decided to try again. "Can I get you something? Some cooling pads, maybe?" Still, there was no reply. Thorin patted a hand over what he thought to be Thranduil's shoulder. A sudden burst of neediness compelled him to ask, "Can I stay with you tonight?" 

Finally, that got him some reaction though it wasn't much. A hand reached out from under the duvet, wrapping around his wrist. He took this as a sign that he was welcome to join the blond even on this unusual night. Slipping under the covers, he tried to find a comfortable spot as Thranduil's gaze followed his every move. 

"Have you ever wondered if. . . " began Thranduil, his voice hoarse with sleep, "if everyone's just pretending to be happy?"

Bemused, Thorin considered if he should answer or not. "Are you?" he asked instead as a hollow pit in his stomach grew by the second.

Thranduil shrugged. "Everyone's obsessed with happiness. I just want to be okay."

Thorin didn't know the right thing to say back. He chose to respond by throwing an arm over Thranduil, pulling him in closer to his chest.

"Everyone's looking at everyone else—pretending to be happy and shit," continued Thranduil, his words sounding a bit muffled. The profound sadness still came through and hit Thorin right on the chest. He tightened his grip around Thranduil.

A wet, warm spot began growing in front of his shirt. Thorin realized he had never witnessed Thranduil cry before. "What if someone tried to be honest for once and admit that feeling this. . . emptiness— " Thranduil shook as his hand clawed the Thorin's back. "—is normal?" He sniffed, once, twice, before continuing, "Do you think the others would realize they're feeling the same way too?"

Thorin tried to get a word in. Thranduil wasn't done yet, however. "But then, maybe it's just me. Maybe it's better to just distract myself and fake it instead. Because telling others would just make them miserable. And that's the last thing I want."

When silence passed uninterrupted, Thorin pressed his lips to the crown of golden hair before him. "Everyone's miserable. Deep down, for all sorts of reasons." He didn't know what he had done to deserve this level of honesty, but he figured it's high time to reciprocate. "Personally, I think happiness is just us getting used to our brand of misery."

Eyes swollen with tears, Thranduil looked up, and on his lips was a tiny, wistful grin. "Maybe."

 

* * *

 

Since that night, Thorin continued to dig deeper and deeper, failing to notice how his world tilted bit by bit with each discovery. Then, one day, he looked up, and everything was off. He wasn't sure what to make of it. It should feel awful but all he felt was this intriguing blend of daze and euphoria. As if he was high on some new drug that no one else had. He was by no means addicted to it, but each day brought forth a fresh batch, leaving him wanting for more. 

Intense and disorienting.

Unstable and overwhelming. 

When did fucking turned into a _bloody_ communion?

Was it after Thranduil asked him to lay down under the stars, passing a cigarette between them, reminiscing about the days when The Durins were still a thing? Or was it after Thranduil hummed a tune so lovely that Thorin couldn't help but pen the words as the melody flowed into his core? Ah, perhaps it was after listening to Thranduil sing those words back to him, alone in their makeshift studio, certain that the rest of the band would fall in love the moment they hear this song. Was he faking it that time too, Thorin wondered. Or was he actually feeling a rare sliver of happiness?

Thorin wanted to believe it's the latter.

 

* * *

 

The first draft would be due in a fortnight. Hunched over the laptop, Thorin found himself in a bit of a pinch despite all the transcripts he had amassed since their whole deal started. The thesis was not what he had intended. Each paragraph sounded more like praise than scorn. It totally went against his objective, and he knew what his colleagues would have to say about this. Flipping through the printouts, he jumped out of his skin when a rush of warm air swept down the nape of his neck.

"What the hell?" he grumbled when Thranduil giggled and pressed his lips on the sensitive skin.

"Haven't seen your hair in a bun before." Thorin tipped his head back as soft palms cupped the sides of his face. "Suits you," added Thranduil, eyes twinkling, reflecting the the glare of light from the laptop screen.

Thorin promptly shut the lid, unwilling to share his thoughts about the band just yet. Would they read his story once it got published? Would they laugh over his enamored reviews, or would they regret exposing themselves to some second-rate writer?

Would they?

 

* * *

 

When Thorin finally sent in the first draft, he expected a call from Balin at the very least. Instead, he received an email he dreaded when he had first decided to take the plunge and risk everything he had gained unexpectedly for the past weeks.

 **From:** Balin Fundinson  <balin@arkenstone.com>  
**To:** Thorin Durinson  <thorin@arkenstone.com>  
**Date:** xx September 20xx at 18:01  
**Subject:** Re: Draft 1 - Lasgalen

_Please return to Erebor this coming weekend. We shall discuss in person the direction you have taken for this assignment.  
_

_Regards,  
_ _Balin_

 

 

Shortly, a follow-up email shattered him, in every sense of the word.

 

 **From:** Dwalin Fundinson  <dwalin@arkenstone.com>  
**To:** Thorin Durinson  <thorin@arkenstone.com>  
**Date:** xx September 20xx at 18:04  
**Subject:** Re: Draft 1 - Lasgalen

_My hammer awaits._

_-Dwalin_

 

* * *

 

"So, when are you coming back?" asked Thranduil, as he lounged on the leather couch, both of his feet up on Thorin's lap.

Kneading an ankle with his palm, Thorin said, "After I have settled some things with my editor."

"Okay, then like. . . by Monday?"

Thorin shrugged as his fingers continued their ministrations.

"You're not sure?"

As much as it pained, Thorin wasn't sure of anything at this point. Balin could easily dismiss his argument as that of an infatuated fool's. It would be so easy for them to reassign him far, far away from their perceived cause of this 'betrayal'—for the lack of a better term.

"Use your words, Thorin."

Apparently, he had been lost for too long in his head. Still, he couldn't promise anything, not even if he could actually return here.

An exasperated sigh met his continued silence. "Couldn't you work this out over the phone?"

"It's not just revisions. I'm being recalled from the field." Thorin ground his teeth over the injustice. "'Cause I fucked up."

"Because of me?" Thranduil quickly supplied.

Thorin shook his head as the blond retracted both feet from his lap. "No, this is all on me. I've been. . . compromised, so to speak."

With a disbelieving scoff, Thranduil stood up and made a beeline towards the wine rack. "What the fuck does that mean?" 

"It means that. . . " Thorin paused as he figured out how to best explain his current predicament. "In my line of work, I can't let my personal views affect the story. I have an angle I should've stuck to, but I didn't. They probably think I've lost my mind or something."

"That's bullshit." Thranduil popped open a bottle and let it breathe as he fetched two crystal goblets. "Don't they realize that this is good? That this doesn't happen often? I could literally count on one hand all the reporters I've personally met with since we started the band."

"Nothing's final," said Thorin, attempting to placate the rising temper. "But I have to go. I have to make them understand. Make them see things my way. I'm not abandoning you. I still want to help, you know?"

Thranduil nodded his head but he still wouldn't face Thorin again. Tension radiated from his shoulders down to his back. "But you can't say if you're coming back?"

"It's not like I'm dying." Thorin sighed. He wished he could believe his own words. "Anything could happen between now and tomorrow and the day after that."

"Like what?"

"Like. . . the RV finally dying on me, stranding me here with you for a couple more days," he said, waving his hand around in frustration.

"A couple more days?" Of course, it wasn't enough. Too short, too soon. 

"Or. . . " Thorin racked his brain for another possibility they could hold on to. "Maybe my editor would fire me for fucking up this assignment." That one earned him a short, mirthless laugh.

Thranduil poured their drinks and made his way back to Thorin. "You're not so terrible at writing, so I doubt it." He handed over a goblet before settling down on Thorin's lap, face-to-face.

"Ah, supportive as always," Thorin said, smirking to mask the loneliness starting to creep up on him.

"It's what I do best." Thranduil drank deeply, his eyes never leaving Thorin's. "Tell me more. What would happen next?"

"If I got fired?" clarified Thorin, to which Thranduil nodded his head. "Hmmm. . . I dunno." Arkenstone had been his rock during the years after The Durins got disbanded. It had never crossed his mind that someday he would have to depart from it, willingly or involuntarily.

"I know," Thranduil offered, breaking him from the pensive mood that was swallowing him in. "You'll realize The Durins is due for a comeback. You had a taste of it after so many years, and you've realized that the stage is where you belong. So, you'd round them all up, and plan and rehearse and plan some more."

Thorin downed nearly half his drink at the mere thought of restarting the band without his brother beside him. "That would be. . . impossible."

"You said anything could happen," countered Thranduil with a wry smirk.

Thorin snickered, recalling the times Thranduil had taken the word 'anything' to mean literally everything. "Cheeky bastard." 

Refilling their drinks, Thranduil continued his unlikely tale, "Then, you'll call me, beg for me to collaborate with you. A song or two, maybe. I'll say I'll think about it before luring you in for some phone sex because we miss each other so fucking much."

This time, Thorin laughed and said, "You're getting incredibly detailed here."

Thranduil merely raised an eyebrow, as if challenging his lover to stop him. "After two days, I'll call you back and demand for you to haul your hairy arse to our studio. You won't keep me waiting, and you'll stay for the night in my place because you forgot to book a room."

Thorin narrowed his eyes before conceding to Thranduil's dig on his capabilities as a traveler. "Sounds awfully like me."

"Yeah," agreed Thranduil. He sipped some more wine and then some more. "I'll keep you chained up in my basement, just so you know. That way you'll never leave me again."

Thorin didn't miss the sentiment behind the teasing. Thranduil hated losing more than anything else. And though they had only spent a few months together, Thorin had somehow become special enough for him to become someone Thranduil would never want to lose. "You freak," he mocked good-naturedly, disguising the guilt consuming him inside by the second. A part of him, however, wouldn't put it past Thranduil's well known tenacity for achieving his goals. "Can I get at least a bowl of water?"

Thranduil kissed him on the forehead, as if trying to ease him into the idea. "I keep my wine in the basement, so you're set for life." The tension in the room almost dissipated. Almost. "Kidding aside," Thranduil said, "I think The Durins is way due for a comeback."

Thorin shook his head, but Thranduil proved to be more stubborn than him. "You said anything can happen. Why can't this be?"

"It's not that it can't." Thorin sighed, growing more aware of how self-defeating he sounded whenever his past was on the table. "I just. . . I dunno where to begin."

Thranduil smacked him on the arm, and it was anything but light. "Weren't you listening to me just now?" 

There's no point in laboring further on his excuses, so Thorin decided to humor the blond instead. "Fine, let's call that Plan A. Is there any way I won't end up as your sex slave though?"

"Nope." Thranduil smothered a laughter, acting all serious about his master plan.

"What about the tour, then?"

"Well, you didn't let me finish." Adjusting himself on Thorin's lap, Thranduil sought for a more comfortable spot before spilling the rest of his plan. "Okay, so. . ."

  

* * *

  

More talking meant more drinking, and more drinking led to slurred lyrics. Tauriel, Feren and Galion rallied behind their leader as best as they could. Still, to everyone's horror, Thranduil hurled the mic to the booing crowd before storming off the stage. Mocking headlines flashed through Thorin's head as he fought his way to the backstage. Lasgalen would survive this—there's no doubt about it—but was he worth all this trouble? Yelling and glares from all directions dragged him back to reality. His untimely departure would be a welcome change for everyone, except for the blond heaving and throwing up in the corner.

"Let's go," Thorin urged. His hand rubbed soothing circles on the sequined back. Too intoxicated to protest, Thranduil allowed himself to be led back to the tour bus amidst a shower of biting words from Tauriel. They didn't know why, and they deserved an explanation. But not tonight. Tonight, Thranduil needed him and him alone.

After a quick shower and a tumble down the bed, both were on the verge of restless sleep. Thorin decided to hold on for one more second. "Hey."

Thranduil groaned as he turned to his side.

"Hey, this is important." Quick, light slaps to the cheek coaxed the blond back to near-consciousness. "C'mon." 

"What?" Thranduil snapped.

"You have to promise me something, okay? Promise me you won't relapse while I'm gone." Pale blue eyes stared up at him, uncomprehending, so Thorin persisted. "Text me. Call me. Even if it's just to yell or cry or laugh. I'll take everything in."

Thick, dark brows furrowed together, forming a line of worry between them. "What?" 

"You said I'd be your only distraction. Miss me. Hate me. I don't mind. Just don't touch any drugs or drink too much again. Promise me." 

The desperation spilling out of Thorin finally got through. Thranduil reached out an arm to draw his lover in. On this bed, they had shared vulnerable moments but nothing as fragile as this. Breathing in the same air, searching for answers in each other's gazes. Thranduil's lips tasted of apologies and uncertainty. "Then, promise me first that you'd come back."

Thorin swallowed the lump in his throat. When had they become completely dependent on each other? When had they turned into addicts who couldn't get their fix without the other? He dropped his gaze as shame crawled all over him. Because addicts would steal and lie and humiliate themselves just to get another sniff, another hit, another high. "No matter what, I'd come back to you."

"Good." Thranduil grinned. "And I promise." In the haze of the moment, Thorin couldn't tell if it reached his eyes. Sleep began taking over Thranduil, however, so he let it go this time. When the rise and fall of the chest pressed against him evened out, he buried his nose to his favorite spot beside Thranduil's ear. In the softest of whispers, Thorin confessed the contents of his heart in three simple words. Upon his return, he would say this again out loud. Until then, he wished with all his might that Thranduil understood why he had to leave.

And that Thranduil knew how Thorin felt for him. _Oh,_ he knew. He knew. He had to.

They had warned him not to fall for the trick, but it all went over his head.

Maybe things would fall through. Maybe things wouldn't work out. 

Maybe no one could wait that long for him to come back.

However, he couldn't afford to back out now.

Not after falling head first into love.

**Author's Note:**

> While browsing for some new old music, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that there’s a connection between the two bands (T-rex for me; x Japan for her) we like, so I made a fic out of it featuring one of her most loved ships.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are both welcome and much appreciated :)


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